


Old Father Time.

by springburn



Series: Random musings from The Capaldi character file. [28]
Category: Peter Capaldi fandom (not RPF), The Hour (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Love, Marriage, Memories, Older Age, Peter Capaldi character file, a story for summer, follow on story, grandfather/granddaughter relationship, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-06 16:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15199013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springburn/pseuds/springburn
Summary: It is high summer. Bel is preparing for visitors, Randall has disappeared.....





	Old Father Time.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is in response to a prompt I received from my dear friend @misswinterseat.....
> 
>  
> 
> _"you wrote Malcolm with grownup Grace, so maybe you’d be willing to give it a go with Randall too, only with him becoming a grandfather and going through all the same emotions he went through when he first held his son. Like a reflection back on life he never believed he’d have with Sophia."_
> 
>  
> 
> This one was too good to pass up! 
> 
> This story follows on from two others I've written in this au. _"Second Time Around"_ and _"Gala Night"_ please feel free to read them if you'd like to. The original idea was from @misswinterseat too and it's my absolute pleasure to write something for her. (I must also thank her for the beautiful story cover.)
> 
> The story is essentially one of Summer. I've tried to capture the days, as I see them. My own thoughts at this time of year as well as the storyline.  
> As for Randall, he's an older man now. Slightly deaf and a bit forgetful. His child is grown up with a child of his own, and that is the essence of this tale.  
> Bear in mind that this is now the late 1970's, early 1980's. Randall is not a modern man, and to make him one wouldn't be right. Those who lived through the War are not as we are today. Their thinking and mindsets were different. If I've based Randall on anyone in this story it's probably a mixture of my own grandad and my beloved father, both of whom were keen gardeners, both of whom evoke strong childhood memories and were very much 'products of their time'. 
> 
> I must point out that Randall is not Peter. They do not share the same likes and dislikes necessarily. Of course an actor may put elements of themselves into the lines they speak, but they are entirely separate entities. Whilst they may look the same, he is a character, and I felt very certain that as he grew older Randall would still search for order, seek peace, would still enjoy his boat and would discover his garden as an outlet.  
> All the references in the text, as regards things like the car, are all true to the time. Car seats and buggies were not widely available and were extremely expensive. A young baby wasn't placed into a buggy until it was old enough to support its own head. Until that time it was laid in a pram or carrycot.  
> Iced-gems you are welcome to google, but they are tiny circles of plain biscuit with a swirl of rock hard coloured icing on top and they were an absolute must for children's tea parties!
> 
> In the first story I made Bel into a copy of the executive producer Biddy Baxter, because as a young and strong minded young programme maker in the fifties, she very much reminded me of her. Blue Peter, of course became a bastion of quality in children's television.
> 
> TCP is a British institution and has been for decades, it is an antiseptic lotion with a distinctive smell all its own. It cures everything from sore throats to nettle rash!

OLD FATHER TIME. 

The heavy drapes were drawn closed across the mullioned french doors that led out onto the stone patio.  
Inside the muted light was cool and dim. 

Bel Brown was all for sunlight, but it faded the upholstery so dreadfully! 

She was working busily in the bright kitchen. Filled with a sense of excitement she could barely contain, because today was the day.  
A floral pinny tied around her waist, washing lettuce and tomatoes, slicing cucumber and placing a jug of lemonade to chill in the fridge. The aroma of roasting chicken filled the room.  
Fresh strawberries from the garden, chopped and peppered lay in a pretty china bowl. Ready for a scoop of Cornish ice-cream to blob on top. 

Playing quietly in the background, Vaughan-Williams on Radio Three. The meandering chords of _'The Lark Ascending'_ weaving an almost idyllic magic spell.  
A golden day.  
Azure blue sky, hardly a cloud to be seen. The mirage of heat haze shimmering and distorting the view. 

Birdsong, bees buzzing industrially on the scented lavender which grew beneath the open casement.

Almost midsummer. The sun high and hot. 

Kip, the young springer spaniel, lay flaked out on the cool lino. Too lazy and lethargic to do more than stretch his toes from time to time as he twitched in his sleep. 

Outside, through the kitchen window, down at the bottom of the garden, she could spy her husband of almost twenty five years. 

Pulling back the net curtain she called to him. 

No response whatever. 

His head never rising from where it was bent over his task of pricking out the radishes in the dappled sunshine.

A fond little smile creased her face.

Lately she'd increasingly noticed he often didn't hear her. Bending his head forwards like a curious bird when she spoke, tilting it or placing one cupped hand behind his left ear as if to aid him in catching her words. Accusing her of mumbling.

Drying her wet hands on a tea towel, she went out to him. 

Across the stone verandah where rattan chairs stood waiting, arranged around an iron table, shaded by a large cream calico parasol.  
Down three steps and across the immaculately mown lawn.  
Passed a wooden summer house with its swing seat, which was his own little retreat from the world of the house if needs be.  
Here was his greenhouse, full of potted cuttings and tomato plants. Surrounded by rose beds, filling the air with a delicious sweet, heady scent. Foxgloves, lupins and delphiniums nodded their long spires, wafted by a gentle breeze. Attracting many milky white and speckled butterflies which rose up and fluttered away as she swept passed. 

Through an arched willow arbour dense with climbing honeysuckle, to the place where her husband worked diligently at his beloved vegetable patch. 

Everything here neat and in apple pie order.  
Runner beans climbed bamboo canes in regimented teepees, their scarlet flowers cheerful and bright.  
Rows of lettuces and spring onions like small soldiers in planted ranks, marching alongside carrots and beets.  
Beyond were mesh caged raspberry canes and gooseberry bushes, hand built with chicken wire to keep off the marauding birds who coveted the luscious fruits.  
Behind them, on the far side of a narrow planked pathway, his _pièce de résistance_ , banked strawberry beds carefully protected with straw to deter the slugs, and to stop the burgeoning succulent berries from rotting on the ground. They were his weakness. His nemesis. The short season giving a glut of summer fruit with which he indulged himself with almost childish relish. 

Here he was, in his element. 

Her beloved. 

Who would have thought it? 

At home amongst the legumes.

Shirt sleeves rolled back to the elbow, showing surprisingly muscular white forearms. Ancient flannel trousers with braces hanging on his narrow frame.  
An old battered Panama hat to protect his head from the hot sun. 

Looking much the same really. A slight stoop at the shoulders perhaps, but otherwise still as tall and thin.  
Fingers gnarled in places with a touch of arthritis. Knees a little creaky maybe.  
His hair, steel grey but thick as ever. Still cut in more or less the same style. 

Randall Brown. 

In his seventies now, but still hale and hearty.  
Long since retired of course, although he still kept abreast of current affairs, writing the odd article. His compulsive need for order and harmony now focussed mainly on his beloved vegetable garden. 

oOo

They'd come to live here at the dawn of the sixties, when their only son was still small. In the Cotswold village near to where the child was born.  
Keeping on the house in London whilst they both worked, using it as a weekend cottage until promising young Freddie, mentored by his primary school master, went to King Edward's School as a day boy and they came to live here permanently. 

Bel still travelled into Town. Still produced the show that made her famous. Running for twenty odd years now and every bit as successful as it had always been.  
Blue Peter had continued from strength to strength, a mixture of the educational; informative, topical and ground breaking.  
It gave Randall an enormous amount of pleasure and pride, to see his younger wife win all the broadcasting plaudits. 

The Brown's were not to be blessed with more children, although for a long time they didn't give up hope.  
It was not to be, and as the years lengthened so the couple poured all their considerable love and parental devotion into their darling Freddie.  
Becoming a strong, stable little family unit.

Randall doted on his only child. 

Lavishing attention onto their son that he himself never received from his own, rather sad and distant, war traumatised, Victorian father. 

Reading to him. Drawing little notes and cards on birthdays or at Christmas. Taking him sailing at weekends. Teaching him photography. Going fishing or to watch the cricket perhaps.  
Being there with a cuddle when he fell. 

Applauding his every achievement. Encouraging his academic success. 

Neither of his parents attended university, for working class Randall, going abroad as an adventurous young rake had been top priority. For his more gentile mother, the Second World War intervened, but Freddie Brown represented a new generation, new hope, free from the traumas of the previous two generations, so scarred by War.  
He was a bright boy, artistic, winning a scholarship to Oxford, he graduated with a First from Balliol, embarking on a career in photo journalism like his beloved father.....then roundly astonished both his parents by announcing he was to marry.

Camille was a delight. A fellow of Somerville.

Originally from Guadalupe on a foreign exchange. She spoke beautiful French as well as English. 

Dusky mocha skin and an abundance of dark corkscrew curls. A wide and ready smile. Full of the energy and vitality of the young.  
(Vim and vigour which Randall remembered possessing in spades, when he set off, all gung ho, for Spain in '38, excited to cover his first big story, experiencing the ghastly spectre of civil war at first hand, meeting Lix and falling head over heels in love.)

His son and Camille made quite the sparkling couple. 

Petite and pretty. She arrived at their house wearing a maxi skirt down to her ankles, a diaphanous floaty top, necklaces of coloured beads, dangly peace symbol earrings and bracelets on her wrists, a flower child essentially.  
Nervous and shy to be meeting the Brown's, whom she'd heard so much about, by reputation as well as from her then fiancé. Their notoriety went before them around the Halls.  
Standing awkwardly, their hands clasped, close to Freddie, who looked impossibly thin, tall and handsome in his bell bottom jeans, with their wide three button waistband, a garish diamond patterned tank top and platform shoes. 

"You've let your hair grow." His father remarked, with a rueful smile. 

"It's the fashion Dad!" Came the chuckled reply. 

A fashion which had rather passed Randall by. As had the whole 'sixties' and 'seventies' thing, by and large. 

Bel had briefly flirted with teasing her hair into a tall blonde confection, known as a beehive. Worn shorter skirts for a time.....but Randall.....well, he was too old for rock 'n' roll, Glam Rock, disco and, god forbid, the latest profanity....punk rock.....to him it was all a nonsensical racket!  
He stuck to the jazz of his youth, Ella Fitzgerald or perhaps a crooner like Sinatra. 

His trademark suit and tie, his dark rimmed spectacles. 

That was his look, and it remained so for most of the rest of his working life. 

Yet somehow he still seemed to fit, not looking out of place amongst the denizens of the BBC, many of whom were roughly his contemporaries age wise. Yet commanding a certain deferential respect from those younger than himself.  
When he eventually retired, the suit was hung away in the wardrobe, to be replaced by soft collared shirts and cardigans, corduroys in winter and flannels or linen in summer, and that was that! 

oOo

On hearing her step he straightened up, one hand on the small of his aching back, the other wiping across his sweaty forehead beneath the brim of his hat with his folded handkerchief.  
A little pile of weeds on the ground next to him, the result of his hard graft. 

"I called you! They'll be here soon darling! Aren't you going to change?" 

Even after all these years, the sight of her coming towards him could still make his heart skip a beat. 

His beautiful Bel. 

Not for one moment had he forgotten the day he found her, after almost giving up hope.  
Just by chance. 

Such a lucky happenstance. 

She was as lovely now as she was then, to him anyway. The years had been kind to her. At fifty she looked forty. Now she still looked much the same in his eyes.  
A slight, trim figure, her blonde hair, greying slightly, not tied back or pinned up anymore, but loose. In soft curls which framed her face.  
Little pearl earrings. Delicate skin. Laughter lines. 

Yes, there had been a great deal of laughter. 

He considered himself a lucky man. 

Reaching his side, she fussed over him like a mother hen, as she was apt to do. 

"Did you not hear me? Look at you, you're all hot and sweaty! Why don't you pop in and have a wash, put on a clean shirt? There's cold iced lemonade in the fridge...." 

Removing his hat, she took his elbow and dropped a peck onto his damp brow. 

Snaking an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer for more. 

"Randall! No! Your hands are all dirty! Watch my good frock!" She scolded, trying to wriggle free of his embrace.

It was a half hearted attempt however, and she was thoroughly kissed for her pains. 

"Honestly!" Chiding him now. "You're incorrigible! Come on in now, and smarten yourself up....you don't want to be in your old gardening togs to meet your new grandchild!" 

oOo

Suitably refreshed and wearing a crisp clean shirt, Bel watched with some amusement as her husband proceeded to move around the house, pointlessly adjusting things.  
Cushions on the sofas, which were perfectly straight, were straightened again. Petals, dropped from a vase of roses on the hall table, swept into his large elegant hand and summarily disposed of. 

After the dim light in the living room, the sunlight outside seemed harshly bright, making him blink like a mole emerging from its subterranean burrow.  
For want of something better to do, he sat himself down in the shade on a patio chair, crossed his long legs and opened the newspaper, perusing without really seeing.  
It was either that or standing at the front bay window twitching the curtain in nervous anticipation. 

Bel bought out the jug of cool lemonade and glasses on a tray.... 

It seemed so long ago that she met him. 

Looking now at his familiar profile as he sipped from his tumbler. The movement of his throat as he swallowed. Little laughter lines crinkled around his eyes as he smiled or laughed.  
Beakish nose, stern brow ridge but the softest, kindest expression. The reflection of the lawn in his dark topped spectacles. 

She never allowed herself to forget.

They so nearly didn't happen. 

So close to becoming an ostracised single mother, lying and hiding herself from everyone and from the man who could so easily have remained oblivious to her situation. 

She'd loved him almost from the beginning, had she but known it. From the first day he arrived at The Hour. Somewhere, deep in her subconscious. She and Freddie had never been destined for each other. Somehow they always missed the boat. 

But Randall? 

With his courtly sense of propriety. That innate sensibility. His stillness and need for control. The calm exterior he showed the world, whilst beneath boiled a raging passionate inferno.  
Drawn to him.  
Like a moth to a flame. 

His presence fascinated her.  
The way he moved. His physique. That soft Scottish lilt. Eyes which held contact long after it was strictly necessary. Slowly but surely insinuating himself into her subconscious, until she felt it impossible to fight the obvious attraction. 

At The Hour they saw him as rather staid and uninteresting, but he was never that. Not to her. 

A man of principle certainly, but also a risk taker. An innovator. His outlook far more modern than he was sometimes given credit for.  
The programme flourished under his gentle guidance. It took time, but he won hard earned respect from his peers. 

Now, here he sat. 

Her man. 

As devoted and loving as ever.  
And oh, he was capable of _such_ devotion..... _such love_. It was almost frightening in its intensity. 

Bel, as an independent free thinking young woman, could easily have found such adoration stifling, yet he somehow managed to temper his emotion to a warm and secure glow, neither suffocating nor irritating, and over the years the pair bound themselves together with an unbreakable bond, one which endured through all the trials of life, and only grew stronger. 

Aware now of her scrutiny, he turned. Setting down his glass on the tray. His glance questioning, one expressive eyebrow raised. 

"What is it dearest?" He enquired gently. 

Her smile was genuine. It lit his world. 

"Just musing on how handsome you are!" She responded. "And how lucky I am." 

Randall hesitated a moment, searching her face for the joke, but seeing only truth. He was about to reply that _he_ was the lucky one, when the toot from a car horn was heard in the driveway.

oOo

The grubby white, box like Triumph Dolomite swept up through the gravel in a swirl of dust. 

Randall winced. 

_'That'll need raking later_.' Was the brief thought that flashed into his mind, but it was soon dispelled at the sight of his son.  
A boy no longer. 

He'd been away on assignment. 

Marriage and fatherhood. They could make the most juvenile young dandy into a man. 

Stepping out, he seemed to have grown even taller somehow, more muscular, as he leaned into his parent for a warm hug. 

"Hello Dad! You're looking great." 

The father flushed, looking down at himself. 

"Do I?"

"Yeah! Clearly gardening and walking the dog keeps you young!"

Randall laughed, bending to fondle the ears of Kip as the excited pup capered about at his master's feet, tail wagging furiously against the legs of his trousers. 

It had been a while since they'd seen each other. Making their temporary home in Paris. 

Long hair gone. Dressed now in straight legged Levi's and a _'Stranglers_ ' T Shirt with a rat on the front, which Randall pointedly ignored as he clasped him tight. 

His young wife, Camille, was smiling broadly, as she too was drawn in for an equally genuine embrace. 

"It's lovely to see you again Mr Brown." She said. 

Her in-law stepped back with a frown of distaste. 

"Call me Dad....please....or if that feels uncomfortable, Randall....but not Mr Brown, for goodness sake!" 

The young woman looked embarrassed so Bel came forward and joined her husband, reinforcing the sentiment. 

"And I'm Mum...." She reiterated, "....you're part of our little family now, you're Freddie's wife....and we love you." 

Initial greetings over and done with, it was down to the unpacking of the heavily laden car. 

Opening the boot, their daughter-in-law, helped by Bel, took out various bags, holdalls and other paraphernalia, followed by a folding pram wheel chassis, whilst Freddie crawled into the back seat to unclip the business half of a blue corduroy carry-cot. 

Randall hovered about at the car door, trying to peer in, anxious to look at the tiny bundle which lay inside, blissfully sleeping. 

Freddie smiled knowingly. 

Carrying it by the handles he expertly fitted the cot onto its base, raising the hood to shield the precious cargo from the strong sun, ready to be wheeled round the sideway and into the garden. 

"Come and meet your brand new grand-daughter!"

oOo

The parasol cast a pool of cool shade, a circle of pleasant relief like an oasis in the desert. 

Randall Brown, seated now, looked up into the shining eyes of his proud son as the small slumbering babe was placed carefully into the crook of his elbow. 

"There you go Dad. Meet little Sophia....."

 

 _Everything stopped._

 

The intake of breath from Bel was only just audible. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle it. Freddie, who knew nothing of his father's history before he met his mother, looked from one to the other of his parents in confusion. 

But Randall was gone. 

Transported. 

No longer sitting in the tranquil peace that was his beautiful garden. It melted away around him. 

The hot and orange sunlight now belonged to Spain. One of those relentlessly smouldering days where it's brightness almost hurt the eyes.  
Burning down on his pale skin.  
Shimmering heat haze glistened like water droplets, wavering before his face, blurring and contorting the scene on the periphery of his vision.  
The outskirts of Barcelona.  
Ochre dust on his shoes as he walked, with his camera bouncing against his chest as it was slung around his neck.  
A small village, poor to say the least, the people emerging from the houses to stand and stare as they passed. 

Himself and Lix. 

Her face was tanned brown, it's expression impassive. Dark hair teased by the dry breeze which sucked the moisture from the very air, drying, desiccating everything, cracking the lips, giving an unslakable thirst. 

"Why the hell didn't you tell me sooner?" 

His own words to her filtered back to him now like leaves on the wind. Echoing in his mind down the long years. 

"And what could you have done if I had? You're leaving at the end of the week Randall. It's not your problem. I'll deal with it." 

His anger boiled even now. 

Not his problem? 

_Not his problem?_

_GOD!_

Typical Lix. 

Matter of fact. Ever closing her mind to the inevitable. Shutting out the enormity of it all. Going to sleep. Ignoring her lack of menstruation, blaming it squarely on the horrors they'd witnessed. Until she finally woke up and realised.

"What will you do?"

"Have it. I don't have much choice....it's too late to do anything else now. I'll go back to Paris. I have friends there. Meanwhile, I'll continue to travel here while I can. I'm due in Granada next week."

Randall had been handed a _'get out of jail free'_ card.

This intense affair would never last. He knew it and so did she.  
Circumstances and the Civil War had thrown them together. Clinging to each other as Barcelona rocked beneath explosion after explosion. Mussolini's bombers hitting their mark. At its zenith neither expected to survive the night.  
Passion borne of desperation. A frantic need to feel alive amid the carnage.  
Making love whilst all around destruction rained down. 

Reporting on the aftermath, seeing, cataloguing the devastation, the stench of corpses and the suffering, this was something that stayed with Randall for many years to come. Affecting him deeply. 

A child was not part of his plan. 

He was young. 

Being unattached and unencumbered was what allowed him to do his job. 

To his eternal shame, he took that card.....he ran away. 

Just as he had done with Bel after their night of illicit passion. 

Afraid of the power of his own feelings towards her. Unsure in the fifties just as he had been almost twenty years earlier with Lix. 

It was only after the War ended that he'd decided to search. But by then it was too late.  
With no birth certificate and no name, or even gender, he had nothing to go on.  
Years he spent on the fruitless hunt, town after town. Granada. Córdoba. Madrid. Frustrated at every turn.  
It was not a coincidence that he secured his job at The Hour. Knowing Lix was there. 

Because he had to know. 

Had to find the child. 

Only discovering the baby was a girl when Lix showed him the battered photograph.  
She let him keep it. 

It was the only tangible evidence he possessed of her existence. 

His Sophia. 

Such hopes he had. To visit her, get to know her even. 

Only to be dashed, when he discovered that not only were the Malfrand family, who had taken in his daughter, were all long dead, but his little girl with them. 

Barely two years old. 

That photo was so precious to him. He kept it in his wallet. Dogeared and crinkled. 

He was looking into that face now. 

Small and round and achingly pretty. 

Wide awake sea blue eyes. A fluff of light brown hair. 

Full circle. 

Sophia. 

Born again. 

Not horrifically maimed and mangled with her adoptive family in an air raid, but living and breathing and wonderful. 

Mewling in his arms. 

As if a switch was clicked, he came back. 

Around him the sounds of the garden returned. Birdsong. Voices. The sigh of the breeze wafting the scent of the flowers into his nostrils.  
From the stark amber light and brazen heat of a harsh Catalonian day, to the soft, calm tranquility of his beloved Cotswold home once more.  
The place where he'd found peace, where he was able push these memories and traumas into the background, not to forget but to enable him to live his life. 

The little face blurred, becoming indistinct as he looked down at it once again. Just like the photograph he'd scrutinised so closely in his private moments, time and time again, until the features on the print almost wore away over the intervening years. 

He hadn't realised that tears were coursing down his face unchecked. 

Lost as he was in another place and time. 

Bel was crying too. 

She knew. 

Knew of all his inner struggles, all his guilt and regret. How heavily it weighed upon him. The strategies he'd learned to use in order just to cope. 

Standing, she came behind her husband. Wrapping her arms around his neck. Pressing her cheek to his and placing little kisses against the wetness there. 

"Oh my darling!" She whispered. "My dear one." 

Reaching up with his free hand, Randall lifted his spectacles to sweep away his shame. Locking eyes once more with Freddie. 

Shaking his head in wonder and disbelief. 

"Well, well." He breathed. 

The small fist of the infant closed around his long index finger, holding on tightly. Bubbles coming from her tiny pink mouth. Randall's expression changed. Brightening, lighting up from within. 

"You used to do that!" He managed to choke out, breaking into an almost strangled laugh. 

"I remember you did it the first time your mother laid you in my arms. The first time I ever set eyes on you, and knew you were truly mine."

He was smiling now. 

New recollections flooded in to blot out the old sadness. 

The day he'd discovered Bel, in the home she'd rented from Hector and Marnie Maddon. Finally revealing the reason she'd disappeared so completely from his life. Her secret. 

Handing over his newborn son to him. 

Overwhelmed with a joy which seemed to rise up inside him and spill over.  
A fountain of happiness.  
Bubbling and tinkling and coursing through his veins. 

Just as it was in this moment. 

And now here he was, that very same boy, all grown up with a youngster of his own. 

How the years flew by! 

Randall's first grandchild...

 _Yes, this was a golden day._ A golden day indeed. 

"She's so perfect Fred. So precious!" He said softly. "I hope you know how lucky you are!"

oOo

 _Another summer, four years later......_

In winter the days are often pointed and angular. Like a rapier blade.  
Chill winds blow in with a razor sharpness, scything through everything in their path.  
Biting and gnawing, yet invigorating at the same time. The icy cold that stings the throat in the frost. The damp that seeps into the bones.  
Sometimes, when the daylight hours are so short, and perhaps it's wet and dismal, a kind of hibernation mentality takes over. The desire to be cocooned. Warm and cosseted in our homes, we sit, looking out, thinking how glad we are to be indoors, surrounded by our cushioned comforts. 

Summer is such a stark contrast. We crave the outdoors. The days are liquid. Oozing with all the orange succulent ripeness of a velvet skinned peach or a swaying yellow cornfield, with its rustling waves of crispness. All dotted with nodding red poppies beneath a wide blue sky.  
Languid and mellow.  
Soporific.  
The sun's light can be harsh, but it is tempered with cool dappled shade beneath the tree canopy.  
Everything reaching its fingertips towards the life giving rays. 

It is not a coincidence that we humans find green such a calming and relaxing colour. Nature surrounds us with it in summer. Putting on a show to delight the eye.  
So many different hues. Dark dusky foliage, light mint springing, exuding a fragrance to ease the mind. Palest tender new shoots, curling and winding upwards, spreading their sinuous tendrils, seeking the sunbeams. Almost joyous in their growth. Exuberant as they make their way beyond the undergrowth and the first bud of flower triumphantly appears. 

To sit in a summer garden. 

Whilst all around the hum of insects, featherlike flitting of butterflies, the whirr of a dragonfly as it passes like a miniature helicopter searching for a pond or stream. Insistent calling of newly fledged birds. A whining, buzzing, soothing symphony.  
July's lullaby.  
The heat of the day bringing with it a sweeping drowsiness, melting like a candle in the heat, softening, before gradually sinking......deeper and deeper......

Randall dozed fitfully. 

Languishing on the swing seat in front of the wooden summer house. Long legs stretched and crossed before him. Hands threaded together across his gently rising and falling belly. 

Head drooping forwards onto his chest, bobbing slightly as he slumbered. His hat pulled low on his brow.  
The faithful dog beside him, spark out. Overcome by the heat. 

Bel had sent him to pick some strawberries......but the basket remained forgotten in the kitchen. This was not unusual. She guessed what had happened. 

Distracted. 

He often was. 

More easily these days. 

Overwhelmed by the desire to close his eyes. 

So peaceful. 

oOo

The afternoon grew hazy. 

On the lawn, in the shade of the bramley apple tree, sat a little girl. Brown hair in plaits. Skin, pale as milk. In little blue cotton shorts, a t shirt and bare toes. 

An old woollen rug spread out beneath her.  
She was surrounded by brightly coloured plastic tea things. Carefully arranged. Dollies and teddies seated about her in a circle. Orange squash in the teapot. Tiny iced-gem biscuits for all to share.  
Bel watched her young granddaughter with amusement as she poured drinks for them, talking all the time. Keeping up a three or four way conversation, changing voices slightly as each of her toys 'spoke'. 

Sophia. 

Almost four now and soon going to school. 

Precocious, impossibly bright, happy and engaged, yet rather a solitary child, due to the nature of her parents work, which involved much travelling. Being shipped from pillar to post made making friends difficult. 

She found stability and security with Randall and Bel. The child was the apple of her grandparents eye, coming to stay in the Cotswolds with them during the holidays or whenever her parents were off on assignments. 

It was towards Randall she graduated most. Imprinted like a chick on a mother hen. It was him to whom she ran if she fell or was upset. Pale arms wrapped tight around his neck, head lolling on his shoulder as she was carried back to the house. 

"Don't cry my poppet. Grandpa has just the thing for wasp stings....special stuff for little girls, to make them better. It's called TCP and it stands for Tender Care Potion...."

Ceasing her sobs, she lifted her head, regarding him sceptically. 

"I'm going to ask Nanzi if that's true!" She frowned, stifling her tears.... 

She followed him everywhere. Chatting in her animated piping little voice, questioning constantly.....each new enquiry made in the most urgent manner, requiring an immediate answer.  
Always beginning with an intake of breath and the entreaty......

 _"Grandpaaaa......?"_

Randall's patience with her was inexhaustible. 

Never cross or condescending, but he enjoyed kidding her, giving her his little sayings. 

Looking down at her with a fond smile, as she looked eagerly up at him. 

"Yes, sweetheart?" 

"Where do the swallows come from? Why aren't they here all year round?" 

_Goodness!_

The things her young mind dwelt upon! 

She had obviously previously heard the birds mentioned, filing the eavesdropped conversation in the back of her enquiring young mind, to be bought out at some point in the future for clarification.  
Not missing a trick.  
Fred had warned him to be careful what was said around her, as she picked up on absolutely everything. 

Her questioning frown only relaxing when the reply came. 

"Well, Sophia, they don't like the cold winter here because they don't have woolly jumpers, so they fly away, thousands of miles to where it's nice and warm.....Grandpa will have to show you on the map....." 

_"Yes!!"_ Clapping her hands with delight. "I'll fetch the atlas......" 

And away she trotted happily. Plaits bouncing as she ran. 

"Nanzi! Nan? I need to get the big atlas down....." She called for Bel as she raced inside. 

To engage her in something he thought she might enjoy doing together, Randall hunted out his ancient battered Leica camera, with some reels of film, giving it to her to take her own shots.  
Gentle pointers, ideas she might try. Advice on framing her picture and lighting it. Lots to see and take snaps of.  
At first she took endless photos of Bel, or him, or perhaps Kip, carefully posed, but then she began to notice the things around her, or captured candid moments when the sitter was unaware.  
Teaching her the rudiments of how to compose a picture, but allowing her completely free creative rein. 

Barely able to contain her excitement as he took her up the narrow stairs into the attic black out room he used for his own developing, before sharing the results with her.  
The process thrilled her. Immersing the blank squares of photographic paper in the tray of developing liquid, watching entranced as the images magically began to appear. Standing close to his elbow in the eerie light of the red bulb. Pegging the pictures on a wire to dry. She soaked up all he could impart to her like a wee sponge. 

"That's amazing Grandpa!"

"Ah! You didn't know your old grandpa was a magician did you?"

Hands on her hips. A disbelieving eye.

"You're SUCH a fibber!" She giggled.

Never a dull moment! 

oOo

"Sophia? Soph......"

Her head raised from her intricate game on hearing her name. 

Crossing the lawn, her grandmother......Nan.....or Nanzi, (as her granddaughter had called her before her speech developed), a basket in her hand. 

"Will you go and hunt for Grandpa darling? He went to find strawberries for tea but he forgot the basket....I expect he's dozed off....."

"Ok Nanzi!" 

Scrambling to her feet, taking the container by the handle, happily leaving her circle of stuffed 'friends' to enjoy their 'tea', Bel watched with a smile as she scampered away down the garden, through the arch, heading towards Randall's domain. 

Slowing to a walk, and then to a tiptoe as she spied him. 

Kip raised his head wearily at her approach, but she placed a finger over her lips. 

" _Shhh!_ Good boy." She whispered. 

Chuckling as she heard him snoring gently.  
He looked so peaceful. It seemed a shame to disturb him. 

But strawberries were strawberries....and not to be denied! 

Randall Brown woke with a slight jerk at the touch of little chubby fingers on his knee. 

Her young face was quizzical, filled with a childish delight. Eyes shining and dancing with the sunlight. 

Stifling a yawn, he straightened up, stretching himself like a cat. 

"Hello munchkin!"

"Grandpa! You were napping!" She scolded. 

"Nonsense! I was examining the insides of my eyelids!" 

A merry peal of laughter. 

"You _always_ say that!" Her admonishment was good natured and she was rewarded by being pulled up into his lap.

Basket abandoned and forgotten, she snuggled herself into his chest, her little legs slung crosswise over his thighs.  
She loved the scent of him. Even though she didn't recognise what it was.  
It was just...... _Grandpa_. 

His arms were folded around her, in an affectionate cosseting embrace. 

"So what is my little pumpkin up to?" He was speaking into her hair, cheek resting against hers. 

"A tea party. For all my friends." Twisting herself so she could look at him closely. "Were you tired Grandpa?" 

"I told you......" 

_"Just examining the insides of my eyelids!"_ She chorused with him, with a giggle. 

"You want a story?" 

Now this offer was _almost_ too good to resist. Sophia loved Grandpa's stories. Especially at night when Nan had tucked her into bed and he came to sit on the edge of the mattress and said the magic words.......' _once upon a time..._.'  
Nights were so hot and sticky now, the window left wide open, with the net drawn across to keep out the gnats, but to let in the merest breath of air. Only a cool sheet to cover her, ice cold milk instead of cocoa at bedtime.....and best of all, one of Grandpa's special fairy tales. 

Her small face frowned guiltily. 

"But Nanzi sent me with a basket......you were meant to get strawberries! Did you forget?" She replied reluctantly. 

His face crinkled slightly as he struggled to recall. Then brightened....

 _"Oh yes!_ " He declared. "But I got side tracked by several furry caterpillars on my lettuces.....then I'd left the basket behind....so I had a wee sit down, and..... _there!_ Time ran away with me!" 

"You were _napping_ Grandpa!" 

Wriggling free, she jumped down. Holding out her small hand. 

"Up you get!" She cried. "Let's pick some together." 

Wrapping his long fingers around hers, Randall pretended to let her heave him to his feet. 

Tilting back her head to look up into his face. 

"You're very high up Grandpa." 

Randall gazed down at her. 

"And you are very low down!" 

"I'll pick the strawberries and hand them to you. Nan says you can't bend so well anymore. You have rusty knees!"

"She's right. I think I need oiling." He replied good naturedly. "But when it comes to strawberry picking, I can still get down there, I promise you, creaky knees or no creaky knees!" 

"You're so funny Gramps!" 

Basket in one hand, sweaty little fingers clasping his with the other, they made their way, hand in hand, down to the strawberry bed. The dog following at their heels. 

"I bet I find the biggest, juiciest ones before you!" His eyes and nose crinkled with his widest toothy smile.

"And _I_ bet you eat more than you put in the basket!" She retorted, swinging their two arms back and forth as they walked together. 

Grandfather and granddaughter. 

Randall and his Sophia. 

He'd found her at last. 

 

Fin.


End file.
